What time is it?

I just woke up. What time is it? My vision, blurry from the shock of the light, combined with some probable sleepiness, confirms: 7:28. Curiously, whenever I'm very anxious about something, my biological clock anticipates the digital one. In this case, I wanted to wake up to find an excuse to go back to sleep. Looking at the white ceiling, I don't feel any push to jump out of bed. And then it appears, the greatest of my villains, vying for my attention, competing with the grunts of the metropolis: the alarm clock's ring. My hatred for it is so great that I've become absolutely incapable of hearing its music under any other circumstances and not wanting to throw my phone in the toilet and flush. The alarm clock is like a public servant: it's there to help you, but it seems to do it in a somewhat spiteful way.

Step by step, I put my bare feet on the ground and stand up. I look out the window at the gloomy weather: the lights in all the shacks are already on, but there are only a few in the condominium. And the sky above is gray, without a single blue speck, announcing a deluge – okay, a little rain, maybe. I, who am already not very keen on going to the work meeting, see an eye winking amidst the clouds, telling me: - “Stay home, buddy. You're so sleepy... it's better to go back to sleep.” I don't believe anyone who lives in heaven: I puff out my chest, open the refrigerator, grab the candy I bought for Julya and eat a piece, pretending it's my breakfast. Already late because of the uncertainty of whether or not to go back under the covers, I have to take a quick shower. So, I excuse myself while I go to the bathroom. It'll be quick: ten minutes. Fifteen, fifteen. Twenty at most.

Showered and shirt ironed, I return to the window because it has started raining again. They are just tiny drops of water, but they want me to stay home – a lie, I'm actually hoping they'll force me. So, I make a pact with myself: – “If it keeps raining, it won't work” – I'm not sure why I put quotation marks and a dash, I didn't say that, I just thought it. The fact is, it worked: the rain stopped, duty called, and the end of the paragraph rhymed.

Dear readers, before you think I'm being lazy, let me clarify: I have a damn (unmissable) birthday of a blessed friend. Then, the traditional good neighbor policy with my girlfriend's family – the eighth (maybe ninth) birthday of her little cousin. Therefore, today, Friday, I've accumulated my graduation essay, some bills to pay, a book for a competition to read, the always-put-aside weight training, and the column I present to you every weekend.

Let's look at me again. On my way to the bus stop, the damn rain is getting heavier, and buckets of water are disguised as raindrops. A consolation for someone who's screwed, I thought I'd look sexy, like every drenched soap opera heartthrob. No, of course not: I look more like a homeless person in a flood. To make matters worse, my bus isn't coming. Damn it, just say the word – it just passed. There's some jerk standing at the bus stop for ten minutes, preventing the bus drivers from seeing us signal. At least one thing is certain: the longer I wait, the less I'll have to wait.

I arrived at the clinic. But it's always the same old story: the meeting is scheduled for eight, and the most punctual one arrives at eight-thirty. The smart one arrives at nine, the sly one arrives at ten just to avoid a salary deduction. I'm going to the meeting. But I have to skip this part. You know how it is... professional ethics – just kidding, pure laziness.

I had time to get home before lunch. Which means I'll have time to do all my adult manly duties. Nothing: in two minutes, leaning against the sofa, I fell asleep. Actually, I'm still sleeping. I look like an angel, can you see?

Hours pass. I wake up. I eat. I go out to pay the bill. I come back. I turn on the TV – nothing good, as usual. I put off weight training again. I read Lévi-Strauss. I write my graduation essay with great difficulty – which turned out okay. The problem is that I can no longer look at the text box without feeling nauseous. I'm just confronted with the rush of the clock hands: it's 21:41 PM and the truth is, there won't be enough time, simply not. We have to rethink this... twenty-four hours in a day isn't enough to get anything done. Conclusion: I'm going to be fired, I knew that would happen. How can I aspire to be a writer if I can't organize myself? Julya always complains about this. I always think about making a schedule or agenda, but I'd have to carry a reminder to check it. The stark truth is, it's not going to work. My premature end has arrived – practically a death at birth.

Already a deserter for the day, I've decided to go to bed early to try and write the column tomorrow morning, before the barbecue. It's exactly 23:30 PM. 23:31 PM, to be precise. Since Julya is already in bed, nothing can disturb me. I just have to lay my head on the pillow and sleep, simple as that.

No sleep at all, impossible to sleep. I've counted sheep, remembered the lullaby my father used to sing to me, and even forced myself to yawn in an attempt to convince myself that I want to sleep. I even wondered if I wasn't already asleep – but I think that question is already an answer. I have the impression that I'm losing sleep because of the sleep I'm going to lose. As an obstacle, the deafening noise of silence. No sound interrupts it. I feel the presence of some stranger, a shadow, I don't know. I cover myself with my nighttime invisibility cloak: the sheet. My feet are sticking out, I'm still at risk. Now, yes.

Solution against the silence: I'll turn on the fan – aha! No, it's too cold. Tsk! I know, I know: I'll turn on the television. I just can't leave it loud, otherwise I won't sleep. I turn off the sound – stupid, that doesn't work, the silence remains victorious. I opt for a dirty tactic against myself: I'll put on a channel I wouldn't pay the slightest attention to. The religious programming only talks about death, suffering, and feelings of helplessness – it's more like the back of cigarette packs. Better turn it off, it's kind of scary. And, while channel surfing, I find comfort. Something that would never be able to seduce me: the jewelry sales program. So I lie down in a splendid cradle, waiting for eternity with the recommended eight-hour deadline. What a mistake: nothing would be enough to convince my brain to switch off. I see no alternative. Nothing comes to mind.

Here's the insight: since I need to write a light piece of writing, because the last ones were reasonably reflective, I'll talk about absolutely nothing. I grab my laptop, open Word, and here goes:

I just woke up. What time is it?